SELECT POEMS.

TO MRS. BISHOP,

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.

“ A KNIFE,” dear girl, "cuts love," they say ! Mere modish love perhaps it may

- For any tool, of any kind,
Can separate-what was never join'd.

The knife that cuts our love in two
Will have much tougher work to do ;
Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of merit;
To level yours with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste ;
And from your single beauty's store
Clip what would dizen out a score.

That self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever :
All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last ;-
All that makes fourteen years with you
A summer--and a short one too ;-
All that affection feels and fears,
When hours without you seem like years.

Till that be done, (and I'd as soon Believe this knife will chip the moon,) VOL. XXXVII.

Z

Accept my present, undeterr’d,
And leave their proverbs to the herd.

If in a kiss delicious treat!-
Your lips acknowledge the receipt,
Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only—“cut and come again!"

TO THE SAME,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICA

WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING.

“ Tuxe, Mary, with this ring I wed”-
So, fourteen years ago, I said-
Behold another ring !—“for what?"
“To wed thee o'er again ?"—Why not?

With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ;
Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd,
And all my Molly then appear'd.

If she, by merit since disclos'd,
Prove twice the woman I suppos'd,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here then to-day (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine,)
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring:
A token and a pledge I bring :

With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart ;
Those virtues, which before untried,
The wife has added to the bride :
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake, as well as love's.

And why? They show me every hour, Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things—but repentance.

EPIGRAM.

QUOD PETIS, HIC EST.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,

Plain folk, in humble plight;
One only tankard crown'd their board;

And that was fill'd each night ;

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,

In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd

A baby Angel's face.

John swallow'd first a moderate sup;

But Joan was not like John;
For when her lips once touch'd the cur,

She swill’d, till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair ;

But she ne'er chang'd a jot; She lov'd to see the angel there,

And therefore drain'd the pot.

When Jobn found all remonstrance vain,

Another card he play'd ;
And where the Angel stood so plain,

He got a Devil portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,

Yet Joan as stoutly quaff’d;
And ever, when she seiz'd her ale,

She clear'd it at a draught.

John star'd, with wonder petrified;

His hair stood on his pate;
And “why dost guzzle now," he cried,

“At this enormous rate ?"

“Oh! John,” she said, "am I to blame?

“I can't in conscience stop: For sure 'twould be a burning shame,

“ To leave the Devil a drop!"

EPIGRAM.

SPLENDEAT USU.

SEE! stretch'd on nature's couch of grass,

The foot-sore traveller lies !
Vast treasures let the great amass;
A leathern pouch, and burning glass,

For all his wants suffice.